Performance at QAZ 7/11/10

October 8, 2008
Dear Diary
I haven’t written about work in a long time, I guess after a while the novelty of throat fucking and faked whimpers lose freshness.  I’ve been working it hard though.  I like it because now I can do more than one trick a day – and many a week – without loosing my ability to function.
I know that I used to work too much on purpose.  When I started going to therapy in intake I was asked what the motivation factor for seeking help was.  I said that my ex was worried about me.  That I don’t eat or sleep and I work too much. I used to chase sex worker burn out as an excuse to crash, because interpersonal troubles never seem like a good enough reason to end up ruined and bedridden.  But everyone expects a washed out ho to be fragile
But now I’m doing booking after booking of full on ass fucking, public groping and hour long spanking sessions and it’s nothing.  Except I feel exhausted.  Last night I was supposed to hang out with lex and get suspended but got paralyzed reading old letters then passed out by 10.  I have all these  vague plans to do some lino printing, write some stories, but when I get home I lay on my bed flicking through pages of brightness and internet text as a way of doing something without doing anything.  My generations version of prime time television.
After I first got back from Australia I had a booking with my regular.  The one that’s the sugar daddy of a friend of mine and he’s freaking out.  A dawning awareness of being taken advantage of is reaching him and days that she’s gone pull in a constant aching pain.  I can tell, mostly because he tells me at length about it, in emails that go for pages in response to simple, mercenary questions.
He starts our session telling me that he’s not in the mood to be mean.  This person who has fucked me with a baseball bats and used shoved ginger up my asshole and watched me cry on the bathroom tiles.
He runs a bath and sits my much smaller frame in between his legs in the stainless steel tub.  Hands softly run over my shoulders, stroke my hair.  I actually can’t deal with this.  I start taunting him to provoke something that doesn’t seem so sickeningly needy.  Maybe I should beat him up?  I take the initiative start sucking his cock in the water.  He pushes my head down, his thick fingers twisted up in my hair pulling me under while his fingers mash into my ass.
But WAIT this is actually dangerous.  There is no room for me to brace myself so I can’t stop myself from falling face forward straight into the floating pubic hair, I can’t breathe.  I close my mouth over his cock and try to not bite down in panic.  I’m kind of freaking out. He keeps pushing my head down violently without warning, and the breaths in between are few.  Finally he comes and I lay back light headed wondering if there could be any STI risks from his semen floating in the water.

He gets out and gives me the towel, awkwardly pats me dry.  I tell him he’s not so tough.  Then I’m picked up and swung around his shoulders, like I’m a little boy.  Holds me upside down till I plead mercy and he then threatens to lick my eyeball.  But as soon as it rushed in, all the energy is out of him again.  We sit on the couch…and he starts talking about Penelope again.  I get up and try to deep throat his cock can dick and then he face fucks me till I choke up bile…no wait, that was the session before.  They are blending together, this work, these faces of hunched over rich men.  I know so much about them – their full names, addresses, the birthdays of their children, what jazz quartet they play with.  I don’t know why they trust me, I wouldn’t.  Perhaps the rich are daring some catastrophe to come into their lives or maybe they are just so desperate that they’ll risk what they don’t want to lose anyway.
It must be so monstrous the lives they lead.  You can tell these men don’t get touched or talked to enough, they are like the abandoned babies you read about in psychology textbooks.  They are so desperate for love and they clamor to be recognized with promises and cash and favors, so much so that I’ve come to expect it now – but of course he wants to take me underpants shopping, of course I get a box of 50 dollar chocolates, of course he wants to build up an entire porn site around me – that is my role as nurturing earth mother. I am an altar at which to give up your gifts and lay down your worries.  It makes me feel sad though, to know how little I think about them once the booking is done, but tricks sign off their emails to me – ‘I miss you’.

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